


love can hardly leave the room (with your heart)

by kindaopps



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, the entire weasley family makes an appearance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 20:12:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8681857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindaopps/pseuds/kindaopps
Summary: Potter makes me feel out-of-sorts, different, disrupting and upsetting the quiet mundane and peace of my sedentary life. Vertigo: the feeling of out-of-balance, whirling in space, a disease, problem with the chemicals of my body, or did Potter poison me?Vignettes of Draco and Harry, eight years later.





	

i: circles

The store is quiet today, and the new books (House Elves’ Rights By Hermoine Granger-Weasley) have already been set up and ready to set for the next day. I cast a Tempus Charm and spell my robes free of dust, ready to lock up for the day when the door bangs open and a man rushes in, grabbing me and pressing his wand against my throat as a few more people rush in, dressed in red Auror cloaks. I feel my heart sink; Salazaar’s blue fucking balls, this cannot be happening. 

The Head Auror steps in, in his artfully tousled hair and all of his utterly messy glory, and I clench my hands against my side, looking away. Merlin hates me. Haven't seen the bastard since the trial, and now after 8 years he turns up, real as the hair on my head, looking all in the world he just stepped out of one of those paparazzi shots of him mid-action in Knockturn Alley raids. For fuck’s sake, Merlin hates me. Why is the Head Auror on a chase like this? Isn’t he supposed to be seated behind a diamond-studded chair barking orders?

The imbecile yelling in my ear about killing me or something and is too preoccupied with the Aurors. I just carefully twist my magic around his wrist and fling him towards the Aurors in a quiet Confrigo. Do all criminals think their victims are weak and defenceless just because they’re wandless? Please, one does not survive a war without learning a few things.

I dust down my cloak irritably (it was a new one, and I will disembowel the fucker if I get close enough and if the Aurors aren’t standing around), and then raise my eyes to see Potter's eyes rest on me. The man is being incarcerated by the rest of the Aurors after a futile struggle, but I feel my functions jerk alive at the heaviness of the stare. The person I still want to know most (taking and breaking him apart, sinew and bone and tissue and see what makes him so, so, so special, so untouchable and so unreal, the one that makes my blood sing with need to find answers buried in the most savage way possible; he is endlessly, irritatingly, exasperatingly fascinating) is him, even after 8 years of mutually not seeing each other: this is the first time we laid eyes on each other after the trials. Seeing his face again (honest, earnest, virtuous, chivalrous) brings back memories of him at my trial, fierce, convinced of his own conviction, intimidating. (I wanted and hated him then as much as I want and hate him now, all that belief and all that strength. Even 8 years later he reminds me of my weaknesses, my flaws, the Dark Mark pressed against the rough of my robes. Somethings would never be changed or erased, the past is always alive, twisting, ugly, branded against the white of my arm.) I feel myself instinctively flinch, but I suppress it.

"Thanks, Malfoy," he says, and is that the corner of his mouth twitching, and I nod, a small, regal one then turn my back to him. I dust my robe again.

There is silence before “How have you been?”

Is Potter really making small talk with me? Well I suppose, after 7 years of mutual snarling and snarking, we've progressed to more... mature grounds. But we have no shared topics; our lives are absolutely different: I'm merely a shopkeeper’s assistant in a bookstore just on the edge of Knockturn Alley right now, ambiguous, insignificant, jaded. He, on the other hand, recently installed Head Auror, philanthropist, volunteer at St Mungo’s, divorced and single and the most fit and eligible now-bachelor if Witch Weekly is anything to be believed, or as gay as Dumbledore if Daily Prophet is anything to be believed, on the top of the world. We are not meant to to have our paths crossed.

"I do believe the Ministry still has records that are easily available to a man of your ranking. Unless you wish to bring me in for an investigation, Potter?" 

Amusement flickers across the git's face, and he nods gravely, "Indeed, Mr Malfoy. You're a civilian accidentally embroiled in a chase, and we need to bring you in as a witness." 

I feel my muscles tense up, and then I shake my head. 

"Don't make me drag you along by magic," Potter's voice is...teasing? Still cannot read him, and it is as irritating as it is fascinating. 

"I'll like to see you try," I say coolly, and then gesture at the door. "I do apologise, but if you excuse me, it's pass my knock-off time." 

(I would, actually. Potter's magic lingers, even after ages he casts a spell, the evidence of his power. It makes me go mad. Am I the only one that can feel the heat and bite of Potter’s magic? What an entertaining, self-absorbed thought.)

"Oh, by all means," Potter says, and then I follow him out after extinguishing the lights and raising the wards, locking the door behind me. When I turn back, Potter's still there, hands in his pocket and green eyes amused. 

Breathe deeply, then brush past the bastard and stroll away, but he matches up easily. I grit my teeth, and glance at the sidewalk, praying for patience, and for my heart to stop betraying me.

"What do you want, Potter?" 

"I actually do need that witness report," he says mildly, and I curse the idiot that ran into the store. 

"I do not wish to go back to the Ministry," I say, carefully, voice without inflection. 

"Oh," Potter says quietly, like my emptied voice told him some answers. Feel a flare of something in me. Irritation? Doesn't feel like it, but I push it away. 

"Would you mind if you told me here what happened? We can use a Pensieve for your statement later." His memories of me are surely tinged with the black of hatred and red of rage, and this one will be highlighted in (potentially, probably) greyness of suspicion and golden vindictive joy at seeing Draco Malfoy downtrodden. No: Gryffindors will always be Gryffindors, so instead of joy, it's probably pity. It irks me more than it should, but this is not the time for these musings. My annoyance has no place in this game Potter is playing.

"Very well," I say, then stop at the sidewalk. 

Potter smiles at me, and I stare back. "Surely you don't mean to do it here." 

Raise my eyebrows impatiently. "Why not?" 

Potter laughs and then gestures to the cafe down the street, ambling without looking to see if I followed. Breathe, Draco. 

He drinks an Americano while I decline a drink. When he finally gets himself comfortable I start talking, flatly and clinically while he just listens. I keep my eyes carefully fixed on a point above his shoulder, and then answer the questions he poses.

"Alright, that should do." 

Nod, then make to stand, nod again, then leave. I don't turn to look at Potter, not at all, but his strange smile stays with me.

ii: vertigo

Potter visits a week later, while I'm reading Keats behind the register. (Keats: perfect pieces of art, quiet, wholesome cadences which slips through my lips makes me feel like I'm capable of something beautiful again.) 

The bell rings, and I look up, feeling my eyes narrow just the slightest before smoothening my brow: defences up. 

"Good afternoon," I greet, "may I help you?" 

"You may," Potter says, and his mouth twitches in this truly frustrating way. Why does it do that? "I'm looking for a book." 

"I believe books have titles." 

"Yes, yes," Potter's smile grew, "It's called Coffee, Tea Or Me?" 

"Oh," I say, ignoring the way my heart seems to have jumped off a cliff. (Also: terrible. Is he flirting? Too obvious? Too unsubtle? Potter, the most Gryffindor of the Gryffindors won’t do flirting, does he? If anything, headstrong, idiotic Gryffindor bluntness. Something like, “let’s go for coffee together.” Or “do you want to go grab a coffee?”. Or just “we’re going for coffee.”. He must be looking for a reaction.) "I do not believe we have that book, but if you'll wait for a moment for me to double-check." 

"Jesus, Malfoy." 

I flick my wand at the shelves but nothing flies to my hand, and then I smile at Potter apologetically. "I apologise, we do not have that. Would you like to try another book store?" 

"I'm asking you to have coffee with me, Malfoy. Where have you been? You literally disappeared off the face of the Wizarding World." 

"The tracker Charm the Ministry placed on me lasts 5 years. You could have found me with enough digging." 

"Fair enough," Potter said grudgingly, "I want to know how you've been doing." 

Raise my eyebrows. "Don't worry, I haven't been raising an army." 

Potter rolls his eyes at me and grabs a Quidditch magazine, dumps too many sickles on the table and then leaves.

I lose concentration on Keats after that. Potter makes me feel out-of-sorts, different, disrupting and upsetting the quiet mundane and peace of my sedentary life. Vertigo: the feeling of out-of-balance, whirling in space, a disease, problem with the chemicals of my body, or did Potter poison me? If so with what? Cure? Is vertigo the fear of something new, something extraordinary, something out of my reach? Do people enjoy feeling out of control so much they created a new term for this disorientating and honestly frightening phenomenon? I can never understand.

-

Potter comes in every Tuesday after that, and tries to make small talk with me; or he would be successful if I played along. But we've been away for so long, and I refuse to the sucked in his little game. 

But Mrs Asbury sees him one day when he drops by when she's stock checking, and Potter, that bastard, charms her. At her prodding, I follow him out. 

"You got what you wanted," I grumbled, "now would you stop coming?" 

"Never," Potter laughs, and it is deep and sincere. 

"Why are you doing this?" I find that my legs have stopped and I'm just staring at the ostentatious red cloak, refusing to look up. Ex-Death Eater and Head Auror walking together; should I get ready for tomatoes and eggs? Should I be looking for the reporters lurking around?

"Malfoy," Potter says, and his eyes are very, very green. "I just want to know you." 

"What you've seen is all that is me," I said, working the lump around my throat. "I go to work, and go home, and eat take away." I don’t tell him about the days I curl up in my bed unable to do anything, or the visits with Mother and Father in Scotland that are as soothing as they are painful, or that my new cloak is the only one in 5 years. He doesn’t have to know the details of my life. Draco Malfoy ten years ago will never be able to imagine the Draco Malfoy now. Draco Malfoy ten years ago: young, naïve and on top of the world, thinking nothing can touch him, Draco Malfoy now: different, battered, very tired. There’s nothing to it but accepting in this post-war era.

Potter is shaking his head. "That's not you. I know you, Malfoy." 

"I'm not that child in school anymore," I hear myself say, low and quiet as I still. "I've changed, Potter, I'm no longer the kid that didn't know anything except pleasing his father. This is my life now, and I'm fine with it. Leave me alone." 

"Well," Potter says, "I like the old Malfoy better." 

My eyebrows are so high it probably reached my hairline. 

"Tea?” Potter says, as he walks into the store just right in front; it is quaint and nondescript.

We settle down, and I stare out of the window as Potter fusses with his coffee.

“Come now,” Potter says, amusement playing at the edges of his mouth as I turn to look at him, “The Malfoy I know doesn’t brood like you do.”

My fingers clench around my cup. (Peppermint: much needed soothingness when faced with Potter; he ruffles me up and unbalances my plans, harbinger of vertigo.) "You don't know me," I say, deadly low, "you never did, so don't pretend now." 

"Then what is the real you?" Potter asks, and his eyes gleam in the light like the sunlight streaming through leaves. 

Take a deep breath and sip on my tea. Of course, Harry Potter: Vanquisher of Dark Lords and Evil, Philanthropist, now Philosopher. Brilliant, really. There is no answer to that. (Self-preservation is key.) Potter doesn't press on, just sipping his disgusting drink as I keep my eyes on the sidewalk across the street and watch the people walk by. (I envy them.) Potter's presence doesn’t leave even as my thoughts drift away.

It’s raining outside when I sigh and drain my tea, turning back to face the tosser. Potter’s eyes don’t move, like he’d just been staring at me for a while. I self-consciously smoothen down my robes (slightly worn, still impeccable, but not the latest fashion).

“What?” Too abrasive, defensive?

“Nothing,” Potter says, his mouth twitching in that truly frustrating and thrice-cursed way.

There’s nothing to it but sniff and stand, nodding a little, “goodbye, Potter. This has been useless in every way. Have a good life.”

“I don’t know about that,” he says, smile stretching and I leave before the staring starts.

iii: paradoxes

Harry Potter comes to the store twice a week nowadays, and sometimes he helps me rearrange books and levitate things. It's a wonder, how the Head Auror looks happy doing manual labour as he rambles on about something usually insignificant (about Granger and Weasley’s devil spawn, about Granger and Weasley, about Ginny, about Lovegood, about the people at work, about other endlessly inane things); he is boundlessly unpredictable, but he always walks out of the door at the same time, apologetically and a little wistfully, the bell chiming quietly behind him. A reminder: he isn't here to stay, he will never be here to stay with you, in the quiet world of too many books and clutter. Somethings are not for me to keep, will never be mine to keep.  
Sometimes I question whether he is truly Harry Potter or one Polyjuiced to be him (as illogical as that is, a man can only hope). He probably has a million of other things to do, ridding the world of evil and scowling into cameras and so forth. Who makes times to shelve books? He is Harry Potter after all, the one who defeated The Dark Lord once when he was a baby, when he was a teenager, miracle child, celebrity wizard, a person who could have everything at the tip of his fingers if he so much as twitched.

Harry Potter, the one whose name is always splattered on headlines and the Prophet. Even then, his name is as normal as it is strange, as unexceptional as it is special, as common as it is rare. I think about him over Keats' words and Shakespeare's sonnets. He makes Elgar and Beethoven (Mother insisted that they were both wizards, and I am inclined to agree) crash against my ribcage. Harry Potter's always alive and kicking and famous out there, certain to make me take a million tumbles through the galaxy in utter confusion and disorientation. Cringe worthy, I know. I’ll always be bad at metaphors as I’m always bad at wanting. Everytime he comes close enough to touch, I want to break him, fragment him, tear his stupid glasses and fitting clothes away like unravelling stanzas and run-on lines and know him. I am still bad at wanting.

Harry, oh Harry. His name contradictory on it's own, the soft and gentle swell of the first name and the dissonance and harshness of the last is like the person himself; a walking paradox. Ruthless and gentle, relentless and slow. (Mine, not mine.) 

I don't watch as he turns the corner and walks away.

iv: scars

“Don’t,” I say warningly, sharply, backing until I feel the edge of the shelves digging into my back. I clutch at where the cut is dripping blood onto the floor, where I can feel the Dark Mark above it.

“Malfoy.”

“It’s just a cut,” I murmur, grabbing my wand and turning about, murmuring the familiar spell against the silt, and wincing as the wound knitted itself close.

Potter crosses his arms, his face bland, slightly disapproving. “You should be more careful.”

“That’s coming from you, Gryffindor.” I tug the hem of my sleeve even further down my arm and can’t meet the green eyes. I try to move past him, but the brute grabs my wrist and pulls it up, slamming my body against the shelves.

“Why do you mind so much?”

“I mind you being an absolute tyrant when you’re here.”

“I meant this,” he says, and his hand touches the brand of my shame.

“Don’t.” It comes out harsh, more desperate than I would have liked.

“It’s been years.”

My breathing is loud in the enclosed space, and I turn my head away from Potter. “It still matters,” I say bitterly, quietly, tugging my arm away and pressing my hand against the mark, two fingers caressing the skin.

Potter’s hand curls around my face gently, tilting it up and towards him. I can feel the calluses on his palm, the sturdiness and roughness of his hand. “It doesn’t matter anymore. You’ve paid your dues, and you were a child.”

I smile at Potter, but he looks at me with pursed lips, and the smile feels wrong on my face.

(Later, when Potter is across me, in my bed, so long away from this incident, I press my lips against the lightning bolt scar, the shape of an Avada Kedavra, and I feel powerful, redeemed.)

 

v: sidewalks (and doors)

Potter across the street with Ginny. They look close, smiling and fingers brushing, like they could fall back together again. She smiles at him and he smiles back, and I'm left staring, standing at the sidewalk with groceries as they settle in one of the tables in the coffee shop, the one we sat when I first had coffee with him. (Is this on purpose? Does he know that I'm staring at them, his hand covering hers? Does he know that it aches, inexplicably and irritatingly?) (Does he even care? Probably not. I am nothing to him.)   
My bags feel more leaden as I look at Potter and his ex-wife, as I catch sign of myself on the reflection: tall, thin, tired. Turn my head away and carry on walking, away from the perfect little scene, away from my terrible reflection, back to my dark place. 

It starts raining, but I let the water drip into my cloak and groceries. To hell be the new. Athena hisses at me as I slump against the door, pulling my knees to my chest: Harry Potter remains the only one that can hurt me like that, mindlessly and with the simplest methods. Potter makes me feel things I never wanted to feel: meaningless, utterly useless agony. (Agony; yearning; are they the same? If wanting aches, does love pain? Vertigo: not the fear of falling, but the fear of the pain of falling, the lure of seductive free-fall with the price of the inevitable brokenness and agony? Ridiculous: Slytherins do not freefall, self-perseverance is key. I’ll never know falling.) He is ruthless, and I have handed him my heart. (My heart? What an entertaining, Hufflepuff thought. Slytherins are heartless, we are the cold, cruel ones.)

It's raining outside, and I stay in my wet cloak until I stop shaking. 

vi: quiet

Father’s funeral is bereft, and painful; I want to break things, and scream, then break down, and cry, but there is relief. Mother stands beside me, stoic, straight, and I follow her example; we are Malfoys, to the very end. The funeral service ends and we walk out. I stay over at Mother’s tiny cottage for tea, but it becomes too suffocating – she is quiet, lost in her own sadness. I walk over to her, kneel, crossing my arms and pillowing my head against her lap and feel her fingers caressing my hair gently. We don’t speak for long moments, but we hold each other together, ignoring the glaring absence. I Floo back to my apartment when the sky darkens in a kaleidoscope of colour. Athena curls on my lap and I hug her against my chest, rocking quietly and attempting to sort my feelings out into its tiny, careful categories, but it tangles up into the inexplicable and indecipherable. I’m exhausted. The door rings but I ignore it, and after a contemplative silence, Harry Potter breaks through my Anti-Apparition wards and silences them so fast I don’t have time to react. Athena hisses and jumps out of my arms.

“Draco, I just heard-”'

I struggle to stand on my feet, and words fall like stones from my mouth before I can help it. (Habits die hard, but I want him, I want him so much, let me change, be the one he wants.)

“Come here to gloat? You must be hap-”

His face: soft, open, worried. About what? Me? My face must be doing something I don’t know, but he is coming closer, and I shut my eyes before my face can crumple completely in response to his gentleness and turn to face the other way, wrapping my arms round my chest. Why is he here? He hated my father for years; this is of no consequence or emotion to him, he could be delighted that Lucius Malfoy died from the shame and downfall of his family. Some pasts will never pass; no matter what people say. My chest is in a tangle, it aches like a consistent wound to think about it.

I feel warmth against my side and turn my head slightly; his face has come so close. I move my head back from that startling green gaze, but my arm is captured. I shiver when Potter kisses my mouth twice, chastely, gravely, a butterfly’s brush of lighting contact, fleeting but lingering. My body tingles: I have been given a prayer, a blessing, a sanctuary in the cavern of his warm mouth.  
I blink rapidly against green eyes and Potter steps away, clearing his throat and pressing fingers through his untamed hair. (His mouth: magic on its own, wondorous, devoted. I would have given up all that I have reconstructed for him, so close and gentle, so mine.)

"Potter," I say, words barely making its way from my mouth, quiet and broken, all frayed edges. (I hate it.) "What did you- you’re-" 

"I know," he says, and then cups my face in his hot hands, and leans in again, "I know." He kisses me again, and my fingers clench in his cloak, as I drown in his strength, his undeniable presence and strange comfort he brings. My body shakes; I’m lost. I don’t ask what he knows.

He stays for the night, holding me together and soothing the fractures with quiet and hot breaths against my hair, lips pressed against my forehead and arms tight around me. (His hands: calloused and strong; destroy and build.) Oh Harry, pull me down and build me up from scratch, tear me apart and mend me, crack by crack, blemish by blemish. If I close my eyes and wish morning away, I can almost believe he is mine, in this form and in this way: wrapped in night, soft and affectionate, renewing, regenerating, changing my very genes. He has always been part of me, down to my magic. But wistful thinking is what comes to you in loneliness and sadness: he is only here because he is Harry Potter, Saviour and rescuer. Draco Malfoy is just another person to save, to keep together for one night, nothing more. Even if he gave me the world in his arms today, there are some happiness that I can never know. We could never be close without hurting each other, why would it be different with time and emotional agony?

-

We don’t speak about The Incident (I’ve decided to put the label on it as Potter and leave it where it’s buried chaos in the back of my head), but Potter comes with me when I go to replace flowers on Father’s grave. His eyes are the colour of a spell cast carelessly but intentionally and I lift my chin up, sharpen my tongue carefully, bracing myself for any comments that might come, but he just looks at the grave for a long moment, inscrutable, before waiting for me to finish and following me back to the cottage.

Mother’s instilled sense of manners rears its ugly head and I sigh before flicking my wand at the stove and making some tea. Potter accepts his while sitting at the head of the table, but blinks at me when he took a sip. “It’s perfect.”

“Of course.” Add a little sniff behind and sip mine.

“How do you know how I take my tea?” Potter’s eyebrows are furrowed but his mouth threatens into a smile.

“I observed the best ways to murder you,” I say simply, rolling my eyes at the git. (What does he think, that I glare at him everyday in school mooning over him? Please, Potter’s ego leaves much to be desired.)

He just smiles into his cup of bitter crap and I huff and carry on sipping mine.

vi: space

It happens in the most cliché of ways – it’s after hours in the shop, I trip on the ladder, and unlike any self-respecting wizard, he ignores his magic and grabs me so I fall on him rather than the floor, head colliding against his chest and his head making a thump against the wooden floor.

“Ow.”

“Seriously Potter, are you not a wizard? You could have used a Cushioning Charm, you imbecile-”

He kisses me, cutting me off mid-ramble and it’s sweet and maroon-coloured. Heat curls in me and I shut my eyes against the feeling.

“Wha-”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” he laughs, after another kiss, and I blink down at him. (How I must have looked: grey eyes blown wide, scared, mouth pursued, slightly wet? Confused, pink in my cheeks? What is he seeing that makes him smile like that: I have to, must keep doing it.)

“You shut up,” I grumble, almost childishly then push off his chest, only to be pushed against the bookshelf, his mouth hot against mine, utterly wonderful. I tangle my hands in his thick hair, it’s slightly coarse, but still soft, and it parts against my fingers. He is the beat of my heart and the flare of heat inside me. I want to hurt him, biting lips and wrestling tongues. I pretend I can hear him say I love you when he says I want you, and I ignore the fact that he has his perfect life away from me, that he has probably someone waiting for him at home for him. In this tiny space between so many dusty, lovelorn and lovesick words and dead poets around us, I could believe.

We tumble into my bed in a fierce tangle of limbs; it’ll never be without pain between the two of us but it's a wonder as he presses fingers in me to make me writhe, and I clutch at his shoulders and wrap my legs around his waist and begs him to go faster and harder. 

Potter collapses onto me and I trail my fingers down his hot back. "You're perfect," he mumbles, and I feel my blood sing with victory. 

"You're not bad yourself," I say, still catching my breath. 

I hold onto the warmth for a while longer before reality comes to steal him away from me, and I push him away before he can move away voluntarily. "Leave, now," I say quietly. 

Potter eyes me with the brilliant green eyes: it’s sad, apologetic, but I don’t want that; it says I can’t and won’t stay, this is just another mistake. I don't want to look at him as he leaves, back to his normal, safe life. I was always the anomaly, the special one, the disruption in his otherwise perfect life (his vertigo as he is mine?). That's all that I'll really be: momentary, transient, fleeting. Standing outside, looking into a warm house with Potter and the Weasleys. 

I don't say anything as he presses one last kiss on my forehead and leaves. 

The bed is massive and colder tonight. I count distance and days until I see him again, dancing to Brahms’ waltz with Athena yowling in my arms.

-

Somedays Potter comes in and he sits with me from behind the counter, a Glamour over his face, helping out sometimes when the shop is filled with people. He makes things simple, easier somehow. Sometimes I’m jealous of him, his simple happiness at being here in a bookstore and helping people with their purchases, his reckless optimism and stupid eyebrow lifts. He is picking out something for Granger and Weasley’s demon spawn before ambling to the counter. He stops, and I bite my lip to stop the involuntary smile as I flip another page of the magazine.

“What- why is the cactus named Harry?” The cactus in question is beside the tip box with it’s name proudly displayed on a stick in its pot.

“It’s named after the greatest prick in history, of course.”

He pauses for another moment, then gave a bark of laughter, chortling so hard he had to sit down. My chest is sunrise at noon; I feel the warmth spreading, eroding me from inside out as he squints his eyes, it sounds like he is choking. Being with Potter is this: something like love, something like hurt.

-

I can imagine how I look: legs spread open and feet planted on the ground, robes open in the front, hiked up above my waist and pants around my knees, panting hard with my hands braced on the edge of the counter. Potter’s hands reach up between the open folds of the robes to gently run them over my nipples and I shiver before letting out a moan, his thrusts forcing me to rise on my tiptoes.

“Merlin,” I hear myself say, voice breathy and high and utterly embarrassing as my toes curl and I lean my head back on his jerking shoulder, eyes fixed on the flipped over sign on the door with a Notice-Me-Not Charm over it. I wonder if anyone saw us like that right now: this morally depraved, improper and utterly scandalising scene. It makes heat bellow up my spine as I reach for Potter’s hip.

“Mmm,” he mumbled, teeth on my earlobe as he thrusts up hard once, twice, one hand on my cock and the other caressing my chest and I come, almost slumping over if his hands weren’t at my hips holding me up as he comes as well. We slide to the floor in a heap, come sliding out of my arse, uncomfortable and warm, with sticky heat at my back. He turns me around and I’m suddenly flustered, reaching for the robes hanging off my shoulders before he pushes them off further, and mouths along my shoulder.

“God, Draco,” he mumbles, and a sound escapes my mouth as he finds a sensitive spot and sucks on it hard. “You make me want to do this to you all the time.”

“This?” I manage to say, trying to compose myself without much success. Potter always thwarts the best efforts to make things go his way, the fucker.

He pulls back and stares at me, and I look back, bemused, suddenly conscious of my general well-shagged appearance. “This,” he says decisively. “You’re always so… prim and proper and buttoned up and strict and I just want to rumple you up and make you dirty and unbutton all those buttons,” he runs his hand through my hair and I bat him off irritably, even though it makes a flare of heat rise through me. “Look at you,” he mumbles, his mouth moving against my neck in light kisses. “I want to fuck you over the counter again.”

“Why alert the press, Potter, I’d never have guessed you have an exhibitionist kink,” I say, trying to sound disdainful but instead sounding very close to breathlessness.

“It’s because it’s you, Malfoy,” he says, “you know how to rile me like no one else.” And then he hauls me up with my back on the counter and fucks me senseless.

Even having had him so close, inside me, all around me, his scent clinging onto my skin, feeling sore for days after, I can feel the breaths, thoughts and universes separating us when he leaves again. The space between my ribs, my fingers, grows as I wait for him to come back.

vii: squares

Potter runs his hands through his hair; worsening it further. (His is messy, haphazard while mine is neat, not a strand out of place. The difference is palpable, contrast stark. His emotions are wild, on his sleeve, mine is in squares, carefully hidden against my chest. I want to taste and keep forever the fierce colour he calls feelings, grasp hold of it and wonder, call it my own, he doesn’t care for mine.) 

"Leave," I say, deadly cold, arms wrap around me to ward off the predictable slam of hurt. 

"Draco." 

"Don't call my name," I hurl it at him like Crucio, like Avada Kedavra, like I could hurt him the way he hurts me; everytime the coldness he's left behind seeps into my skin and the bruises he left behind aching to the recesses of my bones and the loneliness he made me feel he went back to his perfect life, everytime I find out something happened to him from the sodding Daily Prophet. "You can just sod off and die from a gunshot or something, I don’t give a fuck about your fucking life. You are nothing to me.” My voice: cracking, fractured, I cover it with a short laugh, still full of edges I fancy could cut. “Go back to your own life, be extraordinary and leave me alone. I don’t want to see you ever again." (I’m a liar, always have been, always will be. But we both never say things we should say. Something like stop hurting me. Something like care about me. Something like please stay with me. Other words are too difficult to say.) Steel myself, then look into Potter’s eyes, making sure to set my mouth into a sneer. Block off the emotions gleaming through those fascinating eyes and breathe, but even then, Potter could have had cast another Sectumsempra at me again, the agony this feels like. Breathe again, steady, deep, forcing my shrunken lungs expand. Pushing Potter away is nails hammering into my skin, but keeping him close would surely be bleeding slowly to death.

"Draco." His voice, disbelieving, confused, hurt, tired, like he thought he knew me but didn’t. I am exhausting: too many walls, too much work. “I-”

I turn my back to him and walk up to my room. He doesn't follow. I am cold for the rest of the week and throughout Christmas. 

When he is away, I pack my room and emotions back to its neat lines and squares again, orderly, in its own respectful boundaries and catergories. Potter’s red scarf, a stray handknit Weasley jumper, his truly disgusting bottles of beer, coffee and plebian tea are packed into a box. (Potter: beside someone who loves him that is not me, successful, beautiful, an asshole. Me: alone, a failure, also an asshole. It was never meant to work out.) Our tryst is at its end; I didn’t expect any difference. It’s fine. It is. Somethings are not mine to have, that’s all.

I go to bars, trying to dance Potter away in sweat and other bodies. All the different men, their arms and cocks and scent: all wrong, all unfulfilling, not enough. Potter, in his entirety remains the only one I wanted right from the core; it makes my skin itch and my magic thrum frustrated even as I suck another cock in the disgusting loo at a bar.

Tonight’s no different, the dark-haired person comes down my throat and I rise fluidly, grabbing my wand and casting Scourgify in my mouth and on my robes before slipping away back into the crowd, exiting from the backdoor.

It makes me feel worse when I go to sleep alone, without all the annoying habits of Potter. Sometimes he is the words in poems I can no longer read; I’m too scared to prod at it, like it’s a terrible sleeping monster under my bed. He is the hieroglyphics scrawled in my notebooks on days I want to die, the punctuation of my days of steaming tea and echoes of faceless people. I don’t think too much about it. Life goes back to its bleak grey landscape, and just sometimes I want to scratch myself out from my skin.

I blame Potter: if I never met him again, I would be fine, normal, settled in my life and the cage that is my body, but now I’m scared to peer into the gaping wound that was my heart, to conquer and look and see what’s in there, if the shape has always been Potter-shaped, empty, bloody, gory. If I could gauge him out from every nail, every follicle of my body, I would, even if it left me bleeding on the bathroom floor. It must be better than this hurricane of nothingness that batters me everyday.

viii: seams

Potter Apparates into my tiny apartment with a loud crack, his arms unerringly going around me and crushing me against his warm chest, the smell of alcohol wafting around me. My wards start wailing, but Potter waves a hand at it and it is silenced. I wrinkle my nose and shove at him, but even drunk, he just tightens his arms around me.

“Draco,” he says, his voice wrecked, and I shudder.

“Potter.” I force my voice to be sharp, annoyed, angry; not the mess it’s tangled into at the sight of this one idiot. “Let me go. Right now.”

“I can’t,” he mumbles, his head pressing against my shoulder, arms tightening. I am out of breath from being held too tightly, from the feeling of being wanted.

“You can,” I say, the words broken glass in my throat. I lift my wand, trying to put some space between us but Harry just holds me tighter.

“I really can’t,” he breathes, into my ear, and I choke a little. “I need you, Draco.”

“Alright,” it comes out slowly, my heart deciding to abandon me in favour of ripping itself off the veins and arteries. “how about we move to somewhere more comfortable? The bed?”  
Potter nods, and lifts his head, moving back a bit and it’s all I need before I aim a Sobriety Charm at him, watching the grimace and quiet moan, the clearing green eyes. I turn and walk back into my room before he can follow.

 _I_ don’t need him. I don’t.

_-_

Potter barges his way into my room when I just finished washing up, tugging my sweatpants higher on my hips.

“Draco,” he says, a plea in his voice until he stops abruptly, his eyes darkening as they sweep over my naked torso, worn pants, bare feet.

“The Floo’s that way, in case you forgot,” I say, inserting a sneer in my voice as I gesture out of my bedroom, reaching for my shirt.

He, however, steps closer, backs me to the wall beside my bedroom door. He smells like too much Firewhiskey and the cold winter chill, hiding the woodsy scent I’ve almost developed a Palvolian reaction to.

“You have a bruise,” he says, his voice contained, his breath washing over my cheek. His fingers brand my skin of my neck and leaves long trails of want that lead to my belly.

“None of your bloody business,” I force out, raising my hands to shove him away, but he takes hold of my wrists in one hand, the other hand tipping my chin up. His eyes burn with possessive wrath, and I swallow hard, trying to push away. “Potter-”

“I’m not drunk,” he tells me, as if he didn’t come stumbling into my apartment because of his inebriation.

I try again harder, pushing against him, struggling against his strong grip. My body is tingling traitorously with Potter in such close proximity, and I hate it. “Get off me.”  
“No,” he says lowly, with angry, muted determination. “You are mine.”

“Yours?” I say, coupled with a higher pitched laugh than I like. “You mean like your kept pet or your fucktoy, like you can fuck me when you feel like and then leave, back to your clean, Head Auror life,” I sneer, the words tumbling shamelessly from my lips even as my body throb. “I bet you won’t come five feet near me if there was a Daily Prophet reporter around.”

His eyes darken, and his fury is pouring off him in waves. It makes my breath catch, and I can feel his magic sizzling in the air. “Is this what you think?” He says, lowly, dangerously.

My mother always said I am too reckless, for a Slytherin. I tilt my chin. “Why, you never gave me any other reason to think otherwise.”

“I never thought you an idiot, Draco, but clearly you’re one.” The air thickens with tension and something else before it slackens as Potter tracks my face with his too-knowing eyes. I do not like it – I feel like a specimen vivisected and laid bare. I try to push him away again, harder this time.

“Draco,” he says, too gentle. I suddenly don’t want to hear what he says.

“No,” I say, squirming and pushing harder, “no, no, no, no-“

He cups my face into his hot hands and forces me to look into his eyes, the swirling pools of magnetic colour. “You are not my dirty secret,” he says, the words twisting in sincerity and ringing with truth. “You never were. Draco, I…” He takes a deep breath. I don’t want to hear what else he has to say, and trapped as I was between a wall and solid muscle, I did the only thing I could.  
I bent closer and kissed him, our teeth clacking and taking away Potter’s shocked gasp.

-

It’s hot, way too hot; my skin must be burning itself right off. I feel my hair plastered against my forehead, and the sheets are too sensitive against my skin. Potter’s fingers, maddening, frustrating are twisting inside me, his mouth hot and wet on my cock, making my spine arch again. He is all nervous rage.

“Please.” I don’t recognise the voice, it’s broken, cracked and hoarse.

He ignores it, slowly caressing inside me and making another wail rising from my mouth.

“Please!”

“Did anyone else top you.” It comes through a fog, from the haze of unbearable pleasure coursing through my veins, it is ecstasy, it is sparks and brilliance and ache and pain all rolled into an incomprehensible mess. I grasp hold of the seams of my secrets that are going to break, unwilling to let them spill; I am still too vulnerable with him.

“Please, Harry,” I beg, writhing on the bed, trying to let the ache find a release. He doesn’t oblige, his fingers still curled inside me and pumping torturously slow before pressing his fingers against that spot. A scream rises to my throat as he leaves his fingers there, pinching the base of my cock. I feel my eyes water with the intensity, spilling down my cheeks.

“Did anyone else top you, Draco.”

“No,” I finally spit out, tumbling out of my mouth spitefully, as I reach for Potter’s face between my hands, needing an anchor. “Please.” It’s a broken whimper and I hate the way it sounds.  
He licks his way into my mouth, biting on my lower lip as I gasp and writhe more, feeling wetness spill down my cheeks as I arch into his touch. I could have set the sheets on fire, the way my body is thrumming, on the taunt string of fire.

“Only me.”

“You,” it comes out as a howl, and I never hated myself more than this moment, “Only you.”

The slow smile that spreads across his face is brilliant as he pushes into me in one smooth thrust, and I fall over the prepice willingly and with glee. How incomplete I’ve been without the feel of hard muscle over me, pressed deep into me. It feels like an eternity until I stop coming, shuddering and shivering as Potter’s hands trail over my skin.

The last thing I remember is the hot breath on my cheek and a soft kiss under my ear, warm fingers on my cheeks and green, green eyes.

-

I wake groggy, body loose like I grew wings overnight, aching all over, and very warm.

Potter is beside me, propped against his elbow and staring down at me. His skin is a lovely tan under the flattering light of morning. I drag the blanket over me, scowling a little.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says, then his fingers are around my wrist, pressing it against the pillow as he leans down and kisses me on the lips.

My eyes flutter open when he pulls away, and I sit up slowly, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed.

“Don’t you have some place to go?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Draco.”

I turn my head reluctantly back to him.

His eyes sears into mine and all I can do is stare.

“Draco, I meant what I said.”

I snort, and then turn back, shrugging off his arms that try to wind around my waist. I let him turn me back gently. “I’m sorry,” he says sincerely, and my heart thumps once, twice against my chest. “It slipped my mind to tell-”

“Oh, it doesn’t really matter whether you remember or not,” it’s sneering, angry, all Draco Malfoy in a nutshell, the feelings I tried to keep under a leash escaping like maniacal hounds. I try to stand, hating how every movement hurts because of him, the hollow ache in my chest twisting, curling into itself, clawing into my ribs. “It must terribly bad business and what not, having to inform me whether you’re alive or not. Especially since you’ve to tell Weasley you’re fucking-”

Suddenly I’m on my back, Potter’s body covering half of mine. “Don’t,” he says lowly. His eyes are dark, angry, a hurricane in itself.

“Don’t what.” I try for sneering, disdainful.

“Don’t say it like you don’t mean anything to me.”

“I never thought otherwise,” I say, and it comes out quieter than I wanted it to be.

He swallows hard, his throat moving. I am spellbound, entirely fixated on him, but utterly frightened: his face, apprehensive, slightly fearful. I try to sit up again, pushing against his chest but his grips my wrist, Dark Mark exposed. I have never been more vulnerable under his green stare. “Yes, I…you…” His backhand gently runs against the side of my face, thumb brushing against my jaw, but I am trapped in his eyes. “Home. I’m always homesick without you.”

I close my eyes and turn my head to the side, away from that gaze, away from the emotions bubbling and changing in my chest. I don’t want to examine it too closely: I might combust because it is warm, bright and suddenly yellow.

It is quiet for long moments. Harry’s hand traces along my cheekbones and down my jaw, leaving a long trail of sweet warmth.

“What a dysfunctional home you have.”

“I’m Harry Potter,” he tells me, mouth twitching in that endearing way. “Nothing that’s mine is normal.”

The sunlight spills and slants over our bodies, and Harry’s body is heavy and warm over mine. I trace the smooth expanse of his back, and he guides my hands to his shoulder blade and the back of his ribs.

“There and there,” he murmurs, his eyes half shut and breath fanning across my jaw, “hurt like a bitch.”

“You are an idiot,” I murmur back, resting my fingers against the smooth skin and turning my face into his hair; he smells like sunlight and my shampoo. “Don’t think you died and came back means you can do it again; it doesn’t work that way-”

“Yes, Draco,” he says, and then lifts his head to kiss my mouth. “I am sorry, again.”

“Hmm.”

“I love you.”

I swallow hard, eyes wide, my heart beating too fast. He is certain, hands hot on my face, stripping my bare to the bone with one declaration and seeking eyes. I shut my eyes under the force of his stare and exhale. My insides are reconfiguring itself, and my voice is shaky; my tongue can’t break the threads on my lips.

“Alright.”

“Do you?”

“What?”

“Love me?”

“…I…”

“Draco,” he murmurs, and I push my hand into his hair and bring his face down against my collarbone, exhaling noisily again.

“I do,” I say, so softly, unsure if he heard me, but the twitch of a smile against my skin tells me all that I need to know.

The sun rises, and we stay in bed.

viiii: rooms

Potter is ridiculously distracting in his red robes, and I swallow hard and smooth down my blue ones before inhaling again hard. Potter taps me on the nose and then pecks my mouth.  
“I can’t believe you’re more nervous than I am.”

“I’m not nervous.”

Potter snorts inelegantly, and I roll my eyes. “She doesn’t know at all,” I murmur, raising my eyes to look at Potter.

“It’ll be fine, Draco,” Potter says, his hand cupping the back of my head in a gentle touch, and then he kisses me, tugging my bottom lip away from my teeth. “Now don’t do that, it’s distracting me.”

“You’re just insatiable.”

“Because you’re irresistible,” he sings back with a smirk, and I roll my eyes harder at him and then he catches my hand and laces them together. “In through the front door.”

“Like the Gryffindor you are.”

“Well, Draco,” he says with a smile, “I know you love it.”

-

Mother doesn’t even blink, and she sips her tea calmly, when Potter and I walk into the blue room. It is her favourite nowadays.

“Mr Potter, Draco,” she intones, and I bite my lip as she tilts her head and places the cup on the saucer. “What a lovely morning to have the both of you.”

“Mother.” It’s slightly desperate, hysterical, “I- we are-”

“Holding hands, I see,” Mother says in the same calm tone, and I blink rapidly at her.

“Well, yes, I mean, we are… we are dating. Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

Harry is trying to stifle his laughter and I stomp on his foot. Mother’s eyes twinkle in amusement and I huff, settling opposite her and pouring the tea.

“I’m not surprised, dear,” she says, “you’ve always been a little obsessed with Mr Potter.”

“Obsessed?” I say indignantly, “Mother-” Harry is sniggering beside me, and I resist the urge to send a Stinging Hex at him.

“Mr Potter-”

“Harry, please.”

“Harry, then,” she says, lifting her cup to her lips in a delicate gesture. I take a piece of biscuit and chew at him intently, trying to force the heat away from my neck and ears. Harry’s hand creeps and stays at the bottom at my spine; I scowl but let it stay. “Will you take care of my son? These years have not… been easy for him.” Her face is full of regret, I swallow and look away.

“I will,” Harry says, and I don’t need to see his face to know he is doing his best earnest impression most people fall for.

“I can take care of myself, Mother,” I say, a little sulkily, but she laughs and waves a hand.

It is a lovely day.

-

“Ready?”

I shoot an annoyed glare at the bastard, who is grinning at me as we stand at the Floo at Harry’s apartment.

“I just remembered, Mrs Asbury asked me-“

“I cleared with her already,” Potter smiles at me, the amused curl of his mouth.

“It must be Mother, then.”

“She’s in Scotland, Draco.”

“She must have left me a Portkey.”

Harry pulls me against his chest and I stubbornly keep my arms crossed, so it makes it slightly awkward.

“It’ll be fine, Draco.”

I huff on his shoulder. “They hate me.”

“You used to hate them too.”

“That’s different.”

He pressed his thumb against my cheek and I refuse to look into those cunning whirlpools of eyes.

“It’s been years,” he says, and his smile is slow, sweet. Manipulative bastard. “And they know I love you, so they’re excited to meet you too.”

My mind goes conveniently blank for a moment, until heat suffsed my skin and my mind comes down from its ceilings. Harry’s eyes are on me, with the amused curl of his mouth as I blink at him.

“Oh.”

Harry kisses my mouth, and I press closer to him, licking into his mouth.

“Come to bed?”

“No chance, you Slytherin,” he laughs, kissing my lips again before pulling away.

I sigh and let him pull me against his side and we are whirled away to the Burrow.

-

It’s loud.

Somehow Granger and Weasley’s devil child ends up in my hands. The Weasley without the ear is howling with laughter as most of his brothers ends up with purple furry spots over their bodies, the Weasley with glasses yelling at the twin Weasley and Weasley is moaning and waving his wand at the Weasley with the Veela wife trying out counter-spells, Mr Weasley and the Weasley who plays with dragons are talking about some Muggle thing, and Harry’s just laughing (eyes crinkled, mouth wide, he’s always beautiful even when he’s goofy). Granger and Mrs Weasley amiably arguing in the kitchen about what’s the best way to bake a crumble (I don’t understand, it’s just crumble), Angelina Johnson, Penelope Clearwater and Fleur Delacour are discussing the latest scandal with Celestina Warbeck (superficial and boring), while She-Weasley is snogging the tonsils out of Luna Lovegood (thank fuck for that).

The devil child looks like it’s going to cry. It’s looking up at me and I’m looking down at her and we’re both in shock.

“No,” I say, stern, panicking a little as it’s little round face scrunches up, looking around for its useless parents, quite like an overgrown beetroot with a face with all the ginger hair. I’m wondering whether I’ll get some Weasley germs or something. Disgusting. “You can’t do that.”

The child opens its mouth and readies for a cry as I lift it to my face to speak with it better. How are babies so light, how are they supposed to survive, are they supposed to be so soft? What am I supposed to do with this mess? Its blue eyes are filled with tears and looks at me in confusion and agitation. Is there a manual for this somewhere here? I’m considering trying an Accio when a howl rose from her mouth.

“You cannot do that,” I try, saying it loudly and slowly, in case it can’t understand me. Babies are scary and absolutely strange. They only make noises with their mouth, it’s so weird, how is anyone supposed to know what they want? Is it so hard to make specific sounds with your mouth since everyone is already doing it? How are the parents supposed to give them what they want if they can’t voice it out loud? Is there a baby speak booklet somewhere? What am I supposed to do? “it’s horrifically noisy already, if you do that, it’ll be even louder and everyone be driven mad. Not everyone but me and it’s dreadfully bad manners to-“

It’s a devil child. It stopped making that terrifying mouth abruptly, then grabbed my fringe then gurgled. Is that supposed to be a laugh? What?

Suddenly I realise it’s all quiet and I blink at the suddenly quietness as the devil spawn tugs at my hair and laughs again, and I scowl at her, then at the rest of her loud family.

“What?” I snap, pulling the child against my chest as it pulls at my hair again, the sound ringing from her mouth, a sound of purity and joy. I hope it doesn’t get drool on my shirt. “I’m not dropping it or anything-“

“You sure aren’t, Malfoy,” Weasley says and he’s smiling a little, and he is hideous with the purple spots on his face. They look like mutated freckles and I tell him that before he turns back to the Weasley without the ear looking furious before launching into another yelling session with the other two purple-spotted brothers joining in.

I’m stuck with the demon spawn who gives me a toothless smile and tugs at my hair again.

“You’re not cute,” I inform her, rather politely, in my opinion, just so she doesn’t drool on me in spite, “and pulling people’s hair is pretty rude.” She just laughs at me and I grumble, thinking about the best way to wash my hair when I’m back at home.

“I’m jealous.” Potter is beside me, and a schoolgirl jolt rushed through me even as I glare more at the giggling demon spawn. It’s its fault Potter suddenly crept up on me.

“Potter,” I say, “please, have it.”

He is amused, that frustrating smile tugging at his mouth as I fix my eyes on the beetroot face.

“Ow! You pesky little-”

Harry laughs at me and then grabs the child who formed a moue of discontentment (though I could cry with relief, my hair is saved), ready to cry again before Harry throws a sprinkle of bright coloured lights wandlessly and she stares in awe, then claps, giggling again. His magic washes over me lightly and I shudder, watching him as he ambles away and passes the child to Granger who emerged from the kitchen, mumbling under her breath.

I Conjure a mirror to try and fix my hair (that pesky little bugger), but Harry wraps his arms around my waist and kisses me hard, tongue forcing its way into my mouth as I twine my hands around his shoulders. “You’re adorable,” he mumbles against my mouth and I glare at him, ignoring the way a flush rose to my cheeks.

“Say that again and I’ll cut your tongue out.”

“You love it too much to do that,” he says leeringly.

“I could love it without the irritant housing it,” I say, crossing my arms against my chest and glancing away, as heat floods my neck and up. Harry thumbs at my cheekbone and he kisses me again, frustrated and impatient, the way he does when he can’t wait to strip the both of us.

“Go get a room,” Weasley without the ear calls, and I consider flipping two fingers at him, instead replying, “With all of you perverts listening in? I think not.”

There’s silence before the family starts grinning at me, clapping me on the back as dinner is served.

It goes well after that; dinner is pleasant with Mrs Weasley dumping more food at my plate any chance she gets (“eat more, Draco, we have plenty!” I see why Harry loves her, she is formidable, and has a way with broken things), Mr Weasley, Charlie Weasley and I have a conversation about Muggle appliances while the rest of the table chatters on on other things. Harry sits beside me and laces our fingers when dinner is done, calmly sipping his Butterbeer. I feel the weight of his stare on me as conversation flows. It is warm, noisy and comfortable, unlike anything I’ve encountered before in any of pure-blood gatherings. Of course, I stir clear of George and Bill Weasley, in case guilt tries to eat me alive, or She-Weasley, in case I accidentally snap or hex her for coming too close. Other than that, it’s acceptable.

We leave when the Granger-Weasley household leave for the night, the child pressing a sloppy kiss on my cheek to my horror and to her smug glee and to Weasley’s and Granger’s and Harry’s endless amusement. He is still laughing when we Floo back to his apartment, and I act annoyed as I prepare to stomp back to my apartment but he holds me close and noses into my neck.

“Oh Draco,” he mumbles, and I just huff in irritation.

“Enough laughing?”

He nods mock-solemnly, then licks into my neck, and I grab hold of my irritation tightly as he makes my knees feel like they been through the JellyLeg curse.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“I have Weasley germs, I need to wash them off.”

Potter laughs at me and then kisses my mouth against, prying my stubborn lips open and kissing me thoroughly. My chest is tight with the lack of air and I’m left reeling, fingers clamped in Potter’s tee.

We stumble into bed and Potter’s delight and joy wafts around us.

-

x. dreams

Sometimes Harry wakes me up with his nightmares, as I do to. We don’t have to say anything, but it usually involves a cup of tea and quiet murmurs. He tells me about the Dursleys, about the months of Granger and Weasley in our seventh year, about walking in the woods to die with the imprints of his parents and friends. I tell him about the Manor, about the Fiendfyre, about how I couldn’t be the perfect Death Eater my father wanted me to be. Long ago, I imagine these would cause us to fight and argue and yell, still to raw and difficult from the aftermath of war. But now, with time as the healing salve, even if the wounds don’t heal nicely, with jagged edges that still ooze regret and fear and despair, it’s still easier, softer to deal with. Age changes things, I think, as Harry sleeps calmly in my circle of arms, a frailty to his face that I want desperately to protect. He stirs, and I hold him tighter.

“Dr’co?”

“Mmm?”

“Stop thinkin’,” he mumbles, then sighs and goes back to sleep pressed against my chest.

I laugh and does as he says.

xi. home

We are having a picnic in a park in Godric’s Hollow, where Harry’s apartment is. I finger the ring in my pocket. I think the emeralds will suit Harry’s eyes, but anxiety gets better of me. Harry is careless, relaxed on my lap, his lips reddened from our kissing and the strawberries we’d eaten. The sunlight filters across his eyelids, his sooty, thick lashes casting tiny shadows below his eyes. He is beautiful, and utterly mine. I am almost lightheaded with joy, unable to believe that this is my life now – I have taken over Mrs Asbury’s shop with her utmost support and gratitude, Harry Potter in my bed, Weasleys as friends.

“Out with it,” Harry says, his eyes far too perceptive as he looks up, his neck a graceful arch as he readjusts himself on my lap.

“What?”

“You’ve been nervous and distracted all day long, Draco.”

I say nothing, but take his hand and press it against my lips. “Close your eyes.”

He obediently does so, and I reach into my pocket and withdraw the ring, pushing it onto his fourth finger before I disintegrate into a puddle of nerves.

His eyes flutter open and he pulls down his hand, staring at the ring in wonder and dawning comprehension. The emeralds do go with his eyes, the snake almost lifelike and slithering affectionately around his appendage. I hope he likes it. I swallow, and force my tongue to work.

“Marry me?”

His smile lights up the world.

“Yes.”


End file.
